


Skull Gorge Bridge

by afterdungeons (afterandalasia)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Campaign: The Red Hand of Doom, Fights, Gen, In Medias Res, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterdungeons
Summary: The dragon has not fallen under the first flurry of attacks; they have to adapt their tactics to it.(A write-up of one session of our D&D roleplay which went horribly, hilariously wrong.)





	Skull Gorge Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> Makes little to no sense out of context, for which I can only apologise. The _plan_ was to dive in, hit the dragon with everything that we had, and then bug out again.
> 
> ...I forgot the plan. Who I am will become apparent.
> 
> Human fighter = Hal Halftree  
> Dwarf cleric = Baldrick Rockseeker  
> Halfling rogue = Finnan "Finn" Alderleaf  
> Dragonborn sorceror = Chillbraalexander "Chill" Talibat  
> Elf ranger = Bran Eaglefoot

The bitter gas faded, leaving Venomfang’s glittering dark eyes just visible, set upon them in the wake of their volley of attacks. Finn rose to one knee, firing both hand crossbows, but while they bit into flesh they could not bring down the dragon as his mighty wings beat slow and implacable against the air.

The first guiding bolt had struck home, leaving a scalded mark against green scales, and Baldrick’s hand was still clasped about the anvil at his neck. “Haela of the Shining Axe,” he said, breathless not from effort but just from the giddying speed of the rock, “smite this unholy creature!”

Lightning cracked, and light flashed from Baldrick’s outstretched hand, but with a snarl Venomfang lurched aside and the bolt went wide.

He wondered, momentarily, whether the blame should fall on the weakness of the gods or the strength of the dragon and those who had raised him. But there was no time for that.

There was a shout in goblin beneath them. Arrows whipped up from the hobgoblins below, grazing Finn’s shoulder as he tried to duck back down, and whipping past Hal’s so close that it left a bleeding line along his cheekbone. In a shimmer of light and a sharp back of Draconic, Chill summoned his shield, knocking away the other two arrows that came close.

Hal turned and tossed the two wands he had been clutching to Chill, who caught them from the air despite the look of surprise still on his features. “The dragon is mine!”

“Hal–” Bran began to say, but Hal was already running the length of the roc’s back, springing out from just between its shoulderblades. His armour flashed in the dawn sunlight, and he drew his greatsword as he jumped more nimbly than most men that size and that heavily-armoured would be able, anger still blazing in his eyes.

With a snarl of fury, Venomfang snapped at the figure leaping towards him, one great tooth catching in Hal’s calf in a spray of blood. But Hal landed, burying his sword as he did so, and it was dragon blood that fell in great gouts to splatter on the burning tents below.

Hal raised his sword again, two-handed. “No matter how many times they bring you back,” he shouted, voice carrying through the still morning air, “I will send you down to hell again!”

Venomfang answered, in furious Draconic, but Baldrick had never learned the tongue of dragons and he knew that Hal had not either. In any case, it did not matter; Hal swung the sword again and in one mighty blow severed the dragon’s neck a second time.

He mentally scrolled through his spells as the dragon’s body lurched and began to fall, but before even the words to ask for guidance came to his lips, water slammed against his jaw and neck harder than any water had the right to do so. He looked around to see a water elemental on the top of the tower from which Venomfang had flown, shimmering and barely-there in the sunlight.

The roc dipped, trying to follow the falling dragon, but even Bran’s wits and the roc’s wings could not come together so quickly. Wind whipped away the Draconic words from Chill’s mouth as, in a few great strides, he leapt down after Hal and the falling dragon in turn. His silvery cloak billowed around him, then with one arm he took hold of the fabric and with the other he grabbed Hal around the chest. A rush of wind like the punching breath of a giant came up from the ground, hard and fast enough to make even the roc sway in the air. It caught in the spread cloak, contained by its magic, and thrust both Chill and Hal back into the air again, just high enough for Hal to swing the roc closer, grab Hal’s other arm, and haul them both aboard the roc’s back again.

And to think, Hal and Bran had once been uncertain of whether Chill’s magic would be of assistance to them.

Apparently unfazed by the struggles beside them, Finn swapped to his full crossbow and levelled it on one of the hobgoblins beneath them, one in heavier armour than the rest. It caught on the stone wall, and Finn scowled at the barrier before dodging down behind Hal’s highly visible, armour-clad form.

There were too many on the ground, and too few of them with ranged weapons still. “Take us lower!” Baldrick shouted to Bran, who looked him over inscrutably but with no words at all seemed to guide the roc downwards.

The poison of Venomfang still stung in his chest, but there was little to nothing that he could do from the back of the dragon. As the roc came over the largest of the hobgoblin’s tents, Baldrick slipped from its back, held his breath for the terrible instant when there was nothing more than the whistling air around him, but then he hit the heavy canvas with a jarring thud. He slid along its surface, came to the end and managed to hit the ground on his feet.

“Baldrick!” Hal roared from above him, fury in his voice.

“Gorm Gulthyn, Lord of the Bronze Mask,” he said, words panted more than spoken. “Grant me your guardians against these foes.”

Faint figures, glowing like forgelight, sparked gold-red in the air around him. They struck the hobgoblins, including their leader, flurrying through the walls and the bushes around him, sparks from the firelight clinging to them. Too late, Baldrick saw the javelin in the hobgoblin leader’s hand, and though he tried to step aside it struck home, tearing through his thigh in a spray of blood and pain. He dropped to one knee, hand going to press against the wound, but too late he saw the hellhound that charged round from the bridge, slammed into him, and bore him to the ground.

The world fluttered black; he tried to cling to consciousness, but it was like holding onto something with blood-slicked fingers and he could feel himself drifting in and out of wakefulness. He heard the twang of arrows, the cries of hobgoblins, another deep radiating crack of pain as the hobgoblin leader, in passing, slammed something against the centre of his chest.

A shimmering, pure note rang out through the air, and if Baldrick had been able, he would have frowned. He had heard that sound not all that long ago, in the ruins of Vraath Keep, when Chill had summoned the Berserkers from Celestia that had fought alongside them against the sorcerer Koth. The silver of the horn had still been tarnished, not ready to be blown again.

Strange, how such a thought could linger even when he could feel blood pulsing from the wound in his leg, even when his chest burned with each breath that he took.

He was faintly aware of arms scooping around him, and wondered whether this was what being carried to death was supposed to feel like because, if that was the case, he was not sure that a great job was being made of it. His cracked ribs grated in his chest. A rush of cold air and the smell of bird reached him, and then other hands were pulling at him, dragging him sideways, upwards.

The singing of arrows. The snarl of hellhounds. Why was hearing the last sense to go? Baldrick tried to open his eyes, thought that he saw flutters of blue, but was unable to be sure of anything until he tasted the bitter herbal mix of healing potion against his tongue, spreading warmth into his dulling limbs, setting fire beneath his tongue.

He coughed, regretted it, opened his eyes to see the ground and the sky wheeling unpredictably around. Gods only knew what Bran was coaxing the roc to do. He managed to get one hand to the anvil at his throat and began to slur his way through a prayer to Moradin and Sharindlar to grant the healing to them.

He saw Finn raise his hand-crossbows again, the tips of them glistening with a liquid that looked just like that which the giant spiders of the Black Spider had dripped from their fangs. Somewhere, a hobgoblin screamed.

The world was still spinning, and Baldrick was not convinced that all of it was to do with the way that the roc was flying. Blinking away the worst of the giddiness, he propped himself up on one elbow, drawing one of the manticore spines he had intended to give his cousin as curiosities, and just as he reached the end of his prayer to Moradin threw the spine like a dart.

The spine struck one of the hobgoblins in the throat, and he collapsed with blood spurting. Baldrick could see other bodies of hobgoblins now, ones which had not been fallen when he had hit the ground, and could glimpse the shimmering outline of one of the barbarians tussling with the two hellhounds at the foot of one of the towers.

Clean warmth rushed through him, and he felt the wound on his thigh seal up, felt his ribs wrap back together as one or other of the gods answered him and passed their healing hands over the group. Able to breathe more easily again, he was just sitting up as another flurry of arrows skimmed past Chill and Finn above him.

He heard a groan of pain, and looked around to see Hal peeling out of unconsciousness in a manner not far different than he had done just before. Hal paused just long enough to give Baldrick one angry look, then turned his eyes to the ground below and pointed out two of the remaining hobgoblins.

“Finn!” said Hal. “Fire!”

Finn’s head snapped up, and he picked off one of the hobgoblins with a whip-fast hand and a well-placed crossbow bolt. The hobgoblin fell back into the fire still consuming the campsite. Baldrick barely had time to see where the second shot was placed, but somehow the second hobgoblin must have heard Finn’s cry as he ducked behind the wall just in time.

Chill raised his staff. The usual icy calm of his face was gone; he was almost flush, faint pink in his cheeks, one hand clutched over the wound on his arm as with the other he pointed the staff at one of the hobgoblins below. Blue light sparked and swelled on the staff, then sputtered into nothingness again, and Chill cursed at it in hissing Draconic.

Again, Finn fired, and again the bolt skipped off the stone. Hal growled through bloodstained teeth, pulling himself to his feet again.

“Bran!” he shouted, over the rush of the wind. Bran looked up from where he knelt between the roc’s shoulders. “Get me in close to those battlements.”

He pointed with his greatsword to the far towers of the bridge, anger radiating off him. Bran simply nodded, and Baldrick realised just in time what Hal meant to do.

“Clangeddin Silverbeard, Father of Battle,” said Baldrick, raising his hand to point to Hal. “Grant this warrior the strength of the bull, let his blows fall mightily upon his foes.”

The roc spread its wings, smooth and straight, as it tilted into a swoop around the end of the battlements. Hal ran down the length of one, greatsword in hand again, the arrows of the hobgoblins knocked aside easily by his armour. He slammed bodily into the first, who fell to the ground with a squeal as Hal’s shining sword slammed into the wooden roof beside his head. Not pausing to waste his time, Hal turned and sprinted on, crossing the tower in four great strides before leaping the gap to the next and closing on the second hobgoblin there.

Chill raised his staff of charm with his bloodstreaked hand, speaking a single word in Goblin. Whatever it was, the hobgoblin’s eyes went wide – though then again, that could have been the sight of Hal bearing down upon him.

With a wicked grin, Finn followed Hal down the bird’s wing, landing nimbly on the parapets below. His knife flashed, slitting open the fallen hobgoblin from ribs to pelvis, then he rose to his feet and followed Hal to the next tower along, flipping through the air to land easily on his feet again.

From the far side of the gorge, the Berserker that had been summoned roared and buried one of the handaxes that he held deep into the hellhound’s side. As he wrenched it free, an arrow whipped past Baldrick’s head and buried itself in the penultimate of the hobgoblins, still stranded in the middle of the bridge.

“Bring us around!” Baldrick shouted over the wind, pointing back towards the second hellhound still trying to get through the Berserkers defences. Expression as implacable as ever, Bran crouched down and placed one hand against the roc’s back, as Baldrick turned back and focused upon the narrow fight once again. He took a deep breath. “Oh Haela Brightaxe, Lady of the Fray,” he said, “let your spirit join us in this battle now.”

A greatsword shimmered into life behind the hellhound that the berserker still faced, ribbons of golden light around whipping around it. It bit into the hellhound’s flank, leaving the creature’s jaws snarling empty threats and snapping on air instead of sinking into the berserker. As the roc drew closer, Chill stepped forwards and breathed his icy cloud down over the hellhound, which screamed like a whelp as the fire within it seemed to splutter and the grass around it frosted over.

With a final roar, the berserker grabbed the spiritual weapon from the air; Baldrick felt it, like a static shock along his arm as his fingers tried to close around a hilt that was not there. As the roc closed again, it swooped down one last time; the berserker slashed through the hellhound, leaving only ashes and sparks in its wake, as Baldrick slid down gracelessly to land on shaky legs in the middle of the deserted campsite.

The berserker looked up at him, and smiled. Releasing the ghostly sword, he reached to his belt and drew one of the handaxes there – the same handaxe that Baldrick had handed him at Vraath Keep. Baldrick reached out his hand, towards the axe, but before he could touch either it or the shimmering hand that held it, the berserker shimmered out of vision once again.

 

 

 

 

 

Hal rejoined them on the western side of the bridge, the set of his jaw and his grip on the hilt of his sword making it more than clear where his steps were headed. Finn hurried after him, looking barely the worse for wear from the poison cloud in which he had stood, barely bleeding.

“Come on,” said Baldrick to Bran. “Let’s check the towers, be sure there is nobody waiting to take a message to the main army.” Or imprisoned, or worse, he added, but kept such thoughts to himself. It did not do to tempt the evil gods of the worlds with what horrors mortal minds might also imagine. “Chill, are you with?”

“No, I think… I should rest,” said Chill. The words were almost drawled, elven accent slipping out around them, as he waved them off. There was a wooden bench outside the nearest tower, shadowed, and he slumped down onto it with a groan.

Baldrick let him be; he was still more than capable of defending himself. Instead he caught Bran’s eye, and nodded to the first of the towers.

Three of them were the same, empty rooms with dust on the floor stirred up by recent footsteps, untouched bunks and unlit torches. They did not smell musty, and since the hobgoblins had been on the tower rooves it was clear that they had passed through, but it was clear that the tents outside had been their main sleeping places. In one of the rooms, Bran found a potion of healing, a small dose in an inconspicuous glass bottle, but potions were potions no matter their origin and it would work just as well on any of their party as it would have done on the hobgoblins.

They left the tower which Chill was outside for last, and were just returning to it as Hal rejoined them. He dragged Venomfang’s head behind him, not for the first time; the scar from the dragon’s first death was still visible around its neck, the new cut beneath it. Beside the head, Finn carefully laid down a leather bandolier with several husks hanging from it, which sloshed as they reached the ground.

“He didn’t have these last time,” said Hal, grimly. He opened his hand to reveal a blue-green emerald almost the size of his palm, and a golden pin in the shape of a shield. The pin was still bloody. Finn in turn produced a handful of large pearls from his pocket, oversized and looking like iridescent eggs in his hold. “Do you recognise them?”

Baldrick held out his hand for the brooch, looking it over and showing it to Chill. Magical energy still shimmered under the surface, almost tangible but like a word on the tip of his tongue that he could not identify.

Chill touched his fingertips to the metal as well, and frowned. “Magic mizzile,” he said, words still slurring.

It made sense; Baldrick nodded slowly. “It must be this that absorbed the magic missiles you fired towards the dragon, Hal,” he said. “I cannot be sure about this symbol,” a gesture to the moon and star which emblazoned it, “but I think it is safe to say that Venomfang learned from his mistakes.”

“Well, he won’t be learning from this one,” said Hal flatly. He nudged the dragon’s head with his boot. “Chill, think you can freeze this for me?”

“Givin… time,” said Chill carefully, eyeing the dragon’s head.

“We need to check the tents,” Hal continued. “And that captain.” He pulled off his gloves and tucked them into the bandolier across his chest. “Come on. I don’t want us to find any nasty surprises.”

Though Baldrick’s injuries still burned, he knew that Hal would not be that much better off, and that as tired as they were it would be better to uncover things now than when they were resting.

“I’ll get this last tower,” said Finn, with a rap at the stone. He still looked as fresh as a damn daisy, an easy smile on his face. “See what I can turn up.”

“Shout if you need help with the magic,” Hal said, pointing first to Chill and then to Baldrick.

They swept the half dozen tents quickly, not needing to disguise or quiet their actions, and left the largest of the tents for last by some unspoken agreement. The captain’s body lay outside it, and by the time that he reached it Hal was already crouching over the body with a frown on his face and a glass vial of healing potion in his hand.

“He’s better armed than usual, for a hobgoblin,” he said.

Baldrick nodded to Bran. “The potion that we found earlier,” he said. As the elf produced it, Baldrick waved between the two. “Looks similar to me, though that’s about double the dose. Could someone be mass-producing them?”

“For the size of the army that we saw, this night?” When Hal looked up, there was worry written into the lines of his brow. “I can only imagine you’d have to.” He plucked a third vial, identical to the other two again, from an otherwise empty bandolier at the captain’s waist. “And this is the one that made the call to fire on us. They’re better organised than most hobgoblins, as well.”

“I think we could all see this isn’t some war-band,” said Bran, dryly.

Hal straightened up. “Nor some little war,” he said. He swept open the front of the tent; the inside was lit only with a brazier, and Baldrick had to admit that it was relaxing after the blazing-bright sun of the day on his weary bones. The desk before them was scattered with papers, but sweeping several of them aside Hal grasped the largest and unrolled it to reveal a map of the bridge and its surroundings.

“It’s in Goblin,” said Bran, pointing out the spiky scrawl just beneath the bridge on the parchment. “It says to hold the bridge on pain of death, by orders of General Khan.”

“The same name that Koth’s map gave as being the head of the army,” said Baldrick. He quirked a brow. “At least he was right to warn that their deaths would be painful.”

Hal flattened out the map, scanning over the scrawls and notes, occasionally pointing out words for Bran to read aloud. Most of them were nothings, Goblin names for human settlements, and Baldrick caught sight of several scrolls stacked more neatly at the corner of the table. They were waxed shut, each one marked with a moon and star on their end; as he picked them up, already thinking of Chill’s rather more specific magical knowledge, they revealed a second teal gem, a twin to the one that had been about the dragon’s neck.

He picked it up, just as Hal sighed and rolled the map back up once again. The parchment crumpled beneath his fist. “This is too organised,” he said. “I don’t like it. Hobgoblins and bugbears are one thing, but giants? Drow? Abythryax the damned? It’s too much for my liking.”

“The bridge is ours,” Baldric reminded him. “We can destroy it before that army gets here. Buy time for the villages beyond.”

“And this is a suitable place to rest,” put in Bran. “Po can wait for us to bandage up before we held back.”

“But before we do,” Hal’s hand came to rest heavily on Baldrick’s shoulder. “I think that you and I need to have a little discussion about _tactics_.”


End file.
